


Defending Home (Fighting is All I Know)

by PaisleyLove96



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ?????, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fight Club - Freeform, FightClub! AU, M/M, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:54:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaisleyLove96/pseuds/PaisleyLove96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis got out of this world.<br/>But now Harry's back and there's only one reason why... Louis.</p><p>-----</p><p>aka this is my first fanfic ever and it's a weird fightclub!au and idk man</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defending Home (Fighting is All I Know)

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Disclaimer:  
> This is fiction. Yes, what a shock.  
> I don't know the boys because trust me if i did i would not be writing fanfiction about them because that would be super awkward.  
> I'm not making assumptions about any of the boys personalities/personas/sexualities etc. mainly because it is not by business.  
> If you happen to be one of the boys/know them firstly, hi there! secondly, i'm not gonna stop you reading but i am not responsible for any psychological harm/ general weirdness you will suffer from.  
> All factual/gramatical errors are mine (of which there are plenty)  
> k thanks bye.

Denial is a funny thing. 

It’s like you’ve been handed these puzzle pieces by the world and no matter how simple it is to put them together, you won’t do it. You’ll put them together differently; you’ll break a few edges off and stick a few new ones on if it means that you won’t find out the truth. But Harry’s spent too long mashing the wrong pieces together. It hurts too much, these fake images hurt more than the truth ever could. 

He’d taken Louis in every day. He’d taken the absences and half-baked excuses and he’d taken the tired eyes and the unexplained marks. He’d taken it all and he’d made sure he never let those pieces fall together properly. Because no. There was no way Louis was doing that again. Not after what they’d been through, not after everyone they had fought to get out the first time. 

So Harry had taken those pieces and created new pictures. Those pictures suck, but they sure were better than the alternative. Harry had taken those pieces and made them into a new truth; an affair, an addiction to drugs, maybe both.  
He never thought; never let himself think for one second, that Louis would be back in this ring. 

The crowd is, as it always is, an unruly thundering mass; a group of about fifty men, almost all of who are waving their fists and shouting out cries of support. Some of them are here for Louis, some are here for his opponent, but all are here for blood shed.  
Honestly, Harry never thought he’d see this room, this building, again. He thought that once he and Louis left they’d really be gone for good. Yet here he is, and it’s like nothing has changed. It’s the same non-descript concrete building, an abandoned farming shed in the middle of nowhere with soundproof walls and almost a dozen large doors. It’s the perfect place for hiding the truth, impossible to stumble upon and easy to escape, if you’re only a spectator that is. 

But now Harry’s back in this building and suddenly he’s fifteen. Harry’s training for the first time, sweat flying and Coach is pushing him harder and harder already. His knees are scuffed from the thinly scattered sawdust and stomach empty because of yet another gut heaving punch. His eye’s spinning and his knuckles white as they clutched helplessly to the side of the ring.

Harry sees the ring and suddenly he’s sixteen and in his first real fight. The crowd is a wall of noise, distracting and overwhelming and before he knows it, there’s a fist connecting with his cheek and he’s knocked out in ten minutes flat. There’s blood splattering the ground as it gushes from his broken nose. From his split lip. From the gash on his head. 

There’s blood everywhere and suddenly he’s seventeen and he wins his first big title match. The other boy was younger than him, thinner but faster but it hadn’t taken long before Harry had mercilessly knocked him out. The crowd is roaring and soon he’s forcing a smile through bruised cheeks and stinging knuckles. There’s money flying everywhere and Coach is basking in it all.

Harry can see Coach sitting at the sidelines and suddenly he’s eighteen and it’s his last fight. No one knows that it’s his last, but he does. Louis does. Harry knew he was out the moment Coach’s encouragements changed from “Punch him! Kick him! Get him down!” to “Kill him! Go on get in there! Rip his throat out!” Harry loses that fight, and the bruises won’t fade for a month but all he remembers is packing his bags, leaving and never coming back.

There was a rule, maybe there still is, that when the fighters turn eighteen they’re allowed out unaccompanied. They run errands mostly but also occasionally went out for fun, because by eighteen Coach trusted them enough to come back, trusted them to know the consequences if they didn’t. Most of them would always come back. Harry however knew that the moment he turned eighteen, the moment he was given an ounce of freedom, he’d be gone; consequences be damned. So the next day, under the guise of grocery shopping, Harry left with Louis right beside him. 

Louis was nineteen, two years older than Harry, when they first met. Coach introduced Louis as a sparring partner and then later as a fellow fighter. He was a trade in, they didn’t happen often but one of the older boys that Harry used to see around had gotten caught up in a bad scene and left a few days ago. Louis was his replacement, a wild eyed short but stocky boy with a too wide grin that barely ever reached his eyes and Harry had felt himself fall instantly. This boy was a piece of beauty in a barren landscape, an oasis in a desert and a thousand other overused metaphors. 

Louis was old enough to try to get out of this lifestyle but, like many others, he was already too caught up in this world. He had long lost any reason to get out, any reason to risk the consequences of leaving. Then he met Harry. Harry was the one who gave him something to live for, a reason to get out of this suicide lifestyle. 

At least that’s what Louis had always said as they curled up on rusty bunk beds in the middle of the night, whispering escape plans between stolen kisses, “You saved me Haz, only you.” And then later he’d say it again, in dingy apartments and sitting on second hand furniture they’d bought from the combination of supermarket training wages and waiter’s tips. Louis would press thin warm lips to Harry’s forehead and whisper, “Never going back. We’re safe.”

But now he’s back, somehow they both are, and there’s one moment where Harry has to pause and just watch. He can do nothing but watch his boy fight. Watch his boy win. There’s a scuffle, a roar of the crowd, a few more flying fists and then-  
Knockout.

From his vantage point at the door Harry can see it all unfolding before him. A nightmare turned real.  
Louis looks broken, there’s no other way to put it. There’s a mixture of dirt and blood smeared all over his face, a smattering of bruises blossoming across his cheekbones and endless scrapes running over his chest and arms.  
If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Louis was the loser. But he does know better, so he won’t. Louis will never be the victim again. Not now. Not ever. 

He’s a fighter again, and the blood stained grin crossing his face as the referee thrusts his hand into the air only confirms that.  
Louis’ face is triumphant, but Harry is close enough to see that his eyes are empty. He’s also close enough to see the moment Louis spots him in the crowd, and his face drops instantly. 

Harry watches as the boy climbs out of the ring and moves as quick as possible towards him, deftly avoiding congratulatory slaps from a few of the lucky gamblers. There are a thousand things that he expects Louis to say, apologies and excuses and so many other things. Harry’s not sure what he wants to hear, if he even wants to see Louis, but when he’s finally face-to-face with the boy all he can do is reach out and touch him. His fingers run swiftly over every inch of his face and his arms before Harry crushes the shorter boy to his chest and buries his face in Louis’ scruffy and sweat soaked hair. 

“You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.” Harry whispers repeatedly, not quite sure who he’s talking to, who needs reassurance the most. He can feel Louis’ trying to speak against his chest and pulls away so the boy can meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Haz, so sorry. They- They tracked us down about a month ago. Came to the apartment. You were out so I was home alone. They said-”  
Louis stops for a second and takes a deep breath, blinking quickly,  
“They gave me an ultimatum; me or you. They’d let me stay with you and they’d keep you out of it… as long as they got me back.”

It’s too much for Harry, way too much. He knew Louis had gone back, he’d known for so long but he just couldn’t admit it out loud. Harry had thought he’d worked through every emotion possible, that he’d prepared himself for every excuse.  
But this, he had no idea how to react. Louis had done this, risked everything, for him. Every week Louis had left, and fought and came home broken because he wanted to keep Harry safe.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry tries to stay calm but his voice still cracks a little on the word ‘tell’. 

Louis wraps his arms around his middle, wincing slightly at what is probably a bruised rib, “I didn’t want you to know, I didn’t want you back in this world.”

“Well I’m here now aren’t I?” Harry says dryly, as Louis drops his head down refusing to meet the other boy’s eyes. 

“I had to protect you. You’re the only thing I have worth protecting, Haz.” 

And, if Harry can understand anything, he can understand that. So he just reaches down and clutches Louis’ hand, the one free of blood stained knuckles.

“We’ll work it out Lou, we always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes that happened  
> this is my first post so if you liked it kudos i guess and please leave me comments  
> entertain me
> 
> my tumblr is here --> lou-makemetea.tumblr.com 
> 
> bye Xx


End file.
